The Lost Girl (10 page)

“Why did Adrian break the tradition, then?”

“With three of us making echoes,” drawls Matthew, “Adrian has time to spend on his other . . . ambitions. Creating life still thrills him, but it isn’t enough for him.”

“Is it enough for you and Elsa?”

“You ask too many questions,” he says wearily. “Do stop. It’s exhausting. I can’t speak for Elsa, but I, at least, still take pride in the act of stitching a life. I’m beginning to regret stitching
yours
, but that’s neither here nor there.”

I ignore that. “Is that why you decided to take me to Bangalore yourself? So you could make sure no hunter destroyed your creation?”

“How quaint,” says Matthew. “In spite of everything, you still attribute good intentions to me. You mustn’t, you know. I am not kind. Handsome, certainly. And undoubtedly brilliant. But not kind. You will learn that yourself, in time.” He yawns. “I think I shall have a little sleep on the plane. Do try not to be noisy.”

He does sleep. Or at least he pretends to. Even with his eyes closed and his body relaxed in his seat, I still feel him watching me. I don’t know why. He can’t expect me to try to run away from him in midsky. And I stare ahead, hating him with all my heart and longing for
something
.

It becomes easy to ignore him as the flight wears on. With ten hours to sit in one place and do very little, it’s impossible to forget everything I’ve left behind. I can’t stop thinking about Sean and the way he looked as he walked away. Or Mina Ma, who I miss so much it feels like sand on my tongue. Or Erik or Ophelia. I can’t fathom not seeing them again. I can’t process the idea of an existence without any of them in it.

Sean.

And beside me, instead of a friend or a guardian, I have a Weaver. A man who could end my existence with a word.

It’s an ugly thought.

I can’t fail.

As the plane draws nearer to Bangalore, anxiety bubbles up in my stomach, tightening each of my muscles until they ache. I feel sick. Here is my chance to survive, to live a long and normal life. True, I have to be perfect, but it makes me feel better, knowing I can fight for myself, that it is in my power to live.

We land all too soon, and I totter a little unsteadily out of the plane. They’ve attached one of those great steel stairways to the door. As we cross a strip of the runway to the airport, the heat is astounding. Like a blanket, the humidity sinks over us, and I smell wet earth, and dust, and something strangely like the sea, though I know we’re nowhere close. Maybe it’s that raw, salty air.

Out in the sun, before we can step into the airport, Matthew’s hand closes like a vise over my arm again.

“Understand this,” he says, urbane, friendly, “it is not clever to test me. I
like
being tested. I like to win. I have watched you break a law in the last eighteen hours. You defied me and I let you, but you mustn’t fall into the trap of thinking that means you got away with it. I know enough to destroy you this very minute. I don’t need a further excuse. At any time, I can take away the rest of your life. Tread more carefully in this city, or you will fall. Have I made myself quite clear?”

And before I can reply, before I can shake off the steely hand that has blotted out the sunlight, he delivers his final blow.

“And while we’re on the subject, Eva,” says Sir Matthew conversationally, “what
is
Blackpool Zoo like these days?”

3
Stranger

I
have no appetite. I move my hand mechanically, taking the fork to the pasta and bringing it to my mouth. It’s difficult to swallow. I am aware of every sound. The chink of cutlery, fork on plate. The steady breathing of the people on either side of me: Matthew and a young boy with a lean, pale face and soft, dreamy eyes exactly the same brown as mine. He doesn’t say a word. Matthew’s foot moves against the leg of the dining table,
tap, tap, tap
, and it’s annoying. There’s the occasional crunch when the youngest person at the table, a little girl of five, bites into her peppers. I keep glancing at her. I can’t help it. I’ve watched her grow from a baby to a little girl from a distance, and it’s surreal to see her in the flesh. She smiles at me without reserve. Her teeth are small and even, and her smile is sweet, her dark hair soft and unruly. People always said Sasha and Amarra looked very alike. Sasha swings her feet to and fro. They don’t touch the floor, she’s too small, and there’s a rush of air every time they swing.
Swish
,
swish.

There’s no conversation at the moment. Even with my head down, I sense their eyes flicking to me and then away again, all of them except eleven-year-old Nikhil, who has a peaceful, faraway look on his face, as though nothing in the real world can shatter him.

It was a long drive from the airport. The house is close to the city center, set on a quiet cul-de-sac flanked by trees. It offers some breathing space in this busy, brightly lit city. Through the window, I can smell the wet trees, and they smell clean and raw and untouched by the city scent, the dust and hooves of town-bred cows that stand in the middle of streets and refuse to budge.

We saw one of those cows on the way. It had planted itself in the middle of the road and stood there peacefully, swinging its tail back and forth. When cars slowed down and honked, the cow did little more than lift its head to note our plight. I leaned out of the window to gawk at it. I was so sure that Mina Ma had been lying the time she told me about this particular phenomenon.

Alisha, Amarra’s mother, met us at the airport. It was a shock to see her brought to life. I had only ever known her in photographs and videos. But there she was.

She stood outside the sliding glass doors of the terminal. Behind her, I could see rain slowing to a halt, the red sign of the airport Coffee Day, the cars in a line waiting to pick somebody up or drop them off.

We saw her before she saw us. She was beautiful, still slender, and didn’t look like she was in her forties. She had a soft, earthy look, with wide brown eyes in a heart-shaped face and thick dark hair. She wore jeans and a blouse open at the neck but made them look more glamorous than most cocktail dresses. As we got closer, I could see her fingers were stained with paint and pencil. It was the only thing that made me smile.

She spotted us as we got to the doors, the blood draining from her face. She was wringing her hands so hard they were nearly white. I couldn’t help noting how familiar the gesture was. How many times had I caught myself knotting my fingers together, knitting and twisting my hands?

She reached for me, then stopped. Her eyes swept across my face, drinking in every detail. She stared into my eyes for the longest time, until I couldn’t stand to see the agony, the grief, the wild, desperate hope.

I was about to look away when her face split into a smile so happy it hurt to look at it. She put her arms around me and held me tight, her entire body trembling.

“It
is
you,” she breathed, and I looked up to see tears start down her face. “I wasn’t sure—I didn’t know if it would work—but your
eyes
. I’d know your eyes anywhere.”

I didn’t know how to feel. Part of me felt like the lowest form of flea for letting her believe this pretense. Another part of me was just so glad to see that awful grief fade off her face. I stood very still, too scared to hug her back.

“People are staring, Alisha,” said Matthew, his lazy drawl firmly in place.

She stepped back and wiped her face. “It’s an airport, Matthew,” she said. “Everyone cries!” She smiled at him, a sweet, slightly tentative smile, as though she wasn’t certain of his reaction to her. “Thank you.”

He nodded and for once resisted the urge to be flippant. It intrigued me. They acted like they knew each other, better than I’d imagined a familiar and Weaver would.

“What’s the matter?” Alisha asked me, concern widening her still-wet eyes. I didn’t know if I looked sick, or scared, or uncomfortable. I certainly felt all three. She rubbed my arm.

“It’s been a long journey,” Matthew answered for me. “She’s tired. I did warn you. She’ll be disoriented and confused for some time. It’s hard adjusting to the new life. So don’t expect too much of her.”

He might as well have said “new body” instead of “new life,” because it was quite clear Alisha saw Amarra when she looked at me. I should have been happy. It meant my familiars will keep me, and to disillusion her would have been to give her back her pain. But I couldn’t shake off the guilt.

“I didn’t think,” she said, stricken. “I’m sorry, darling, you must be badly shocked. The trauma of the accident—and the change—”

“Don’t lose sleep over it,” said Matthew, giving me a darkly amused look. “She’ll recover.”

Alisha frowned at him. “You sound more like Adrian these days. There’s an easy cruelty in you that I don’t remember.”

“I daresay you’re right,” said Matthew.

“Was he kind to you on your way?” she asked me, and she suddenly reminded me of Mina Ma, angry and protective. “Did he behave?”

Matthew feigned high injury. “I always behave impeccably.” He grinned at me. “Don’t I?”

Alisha laughed. “I know better than that, Matthew.” She gave me another concerned look but, to my relief, didn’t push me to speak. “We’d better go find the car, baby. You look tired. Do you need a bed for the night, Matthew?”

“I expect Neil will have something to say about that,” he said, “so no. I do have a hotel. But thank you for the offer.”

“Well,” she said, carefully avoiding his eye, “you can at least stay for dinner.”

I couldn’t understand them. Were they friends? Did they used to be friends but now no longer were? Alisha knew Adrian. Matthew seemed to think Neil didn’t like him. This was no average familiar-Weaver relationship. She showed none of the suspicion or awe Erik had once said characterized most familiars. She seemed uncertain of him, but it wasn’t because he was a Weaver.

They talked as we made our way to the car. I sat in the back, and Matthew folded himself into the passenger seat. His face held no expression. In spite of their too-casual conversation, I had the odd idea that he hated her.

I focused on the city.

Seeing the city was stranger than seeing Alisha. I had been sent pictures all my life, of course, and Mina Ma had told me long stories about Bangalore. She had described streets, places, pieces of her life. As a child, I sat at her feet and drew pictures, inspired by her voice and by the flickers of memory passed on through Amarra’s and my consciousness. So many of those pictures had been
true
. There were ashoka trees down the middle of a long road, just the way I’d imagined. Mina Ma would always joke about them. She used to say the mushroom-shaped foliage of the dark green trees was exactly like her hair. There were little stalls along the roads, open late, tea stalls with clinking steel cups and sweet shops with packets of crisps hanging from makeshift roofs. Or chips, as Mina Ma called them. Coke and Pepsi in glass bottles with steel bottle caps. Men crouched on the edge of the road, smoking tiny not-quite cigarettes. It was all so impossibly familiar.

Watching the city come alive made me feel an unbearable pang of homesickness and longing for Mina Ma. The cow was a welcome sight toward the end. Between them, the ashoka-trees-like-Mina-Ma’s-hair and the cow kept my spirits from sinking too low.

Alisha’s attempt to park her car in front of the house was a fiasco. Driving was not her strong suit, though on the roads she had seemed positively talented compared to some of the motorcycles whizzing by. She reversed badly, hit a coconut tree, swore, and shot forward again, bumping into the back of Neil’s car. I held on to the back of Matthew’s seat. It was an old car, obviously made in the days when backseat seatbelts were an unnecessary affliction.

When we stopped, I thought of the story Mina Ma once told us. Of the mongoose and farmer, and the snake I always think of when I look at the tattoo inked in my skin. I thought of how the farmer brought a stranger home to his family, and how they loved the mongoose but never really trusted it. And when disaster seemed to have struck, they turned first on the creature they had cared for.

I tried to put the story out of my mind. I followed Alisha and Matthew through a front door, which was unlocked, and into a hallway full of light.

“Neil? We’re here!” Alisha sounded so excited it was heartbreaking.

A man emerged from the next room, holding a dishcloth in his hands. He was very thin and wore glasses. His hair and clothes were untidy but scrupulously clean. I recognized him too, down to the disarray.

“Hello, Matthew,” he said in a pleasant tenor, and he held out a hand.

Matthew’s eyes glittered. “Neil.” I recognized the smooth, feral good humor I had come to loathe and mistrust. “You look well.”

“Thank you, so do you.” His eyes, a paler brown than mine and full of light that reflected off his glasses, shifted to me. I stood stiffly in the corner. Neil smiled carefully and drew closer. I saw that beneath the kind smile lurked a deep, terrible sadness.

“Hello,” he said, deliberately avoiding the use of my name.

“Hi,” I said. I should have added “Dad,” but I couldn’t make my tongue form the word. I had never used it in my life.

He scanned my face, much like Alisha had done, but I could see that there was no hope in his. He might have hoped once, but he must have known the moment he set eyes on me that it had been in vain. He was the logical one, Alisha the passionate one.

“Don’t you see it, Neil?” Alisha asked. “Don’t you see her?”

“I see her face, Al,” he said, but gently.

While Neil asked Matthew something, Alisha glanced quickly at me, as though worried that I would be hurt by his reaction. It was the way Amarra would have felt, after all.

“Give him time,” she said in my ear. “You know your father. It’ll take him some getting used to, but he’ll see you’re there.”

Or
she
would see that Amarra wasn’t, I thought sadly.

Footsteps clattered on the stairs. A boy and a little girl appeared at the top. I felt a sharp tug on my chest, which surprised me. I had pretended to be fond of them since they were born, but I hadn’t realized that somewhere along the way it had stopped being pretend.

The boy moved cautiously. His face reminded me of a saint’s in a painting: sweet, unflappably calm, faraway. He looked at me curiously. The little girl bounded down and ran to her mother.

“There, Sasha, see? I told you I’d bring Amarra home with me.”

“Hi,” said Sasha shyly. “How was your holiday?”

I had to clear my throat, painfully. “It was nice. Have you been going to school?”

She grinned and hid her face behind her mother. Alisha laughed. “She’s been home every day this last week. She’s a little devil, aren’t you, baby? Neil lets her get away with anything if she makes her sad face at him.”

From behind Alisha’s legs, Sasha lifted a shy hand to wave at me. It occurred to me then that Sasha had sensed, in spite of her mother’s promises, that the girl in her home was not her sister at all.

Things began well at dinner. There was food to compliment. Sasha demanded extra peppers and made everybody laugh by spilling them, and Alisha kept up a lively stream of chatter. But even she couldn’t do this indefinitely, not on her own. When Matthew went suspiciously silent, the talk died.

I glare sideways at him now, knowing his silence stems from a malicious desire to see what we do, to watch how we struggle to find level ground to stand on. But my glare has no effect on him. He smiles and continues to tap his foot,
tap, tap
, against the table leg. I wonder who he’s punishing. Me? Them? Is he simply doing this out of interest, the way someone might put a rat and hawk together in a cage to see what happens?

My stomach is knotted tight. I wonder if I will ever be able to relax in this house.

Dinner has to end at some point and it does, after what felt to all of us like an entire historical era. I watch Matthew leave with mixed feelings. He was something from my old life, my own world. He made me. But he’s also the man who knows enough about me to destroy me.

“Why don’t I take your things upstairs?” Neil says.

Alisha frowns at my bags, as if noticing them for the first time. “Why did you need to bring so much? All your things are here.”

“It’s, erm—” I stammer. “It’s just stuff.”

“Oh.” Alisha catches Neil’s eye and lets it go. She touches my cheek. “Do you want me to come up and say good night in a bit?”

I shake my head. “I’m going to go straight to bed now.”

Watched by eyes that are pretending not to, I walk up the stairs and to Amarra’s room without error. Even if I struggle with pretending to
be
her, my memories of her life, whatever they told me, are crystal clear. I don’t hesitate when I reach the landing that splits off two ways, and I find it very easy to choose the right bedroom door.

I hesitate on the threshold, in the dark doorway. My hand reaches automatically up to the light switch on the right. I remember that this is not my room. The switch here is on the
left
. No one ever told me that. I learned it from the photographs. Why would you tell somebody where switches are? It’s not something anybody would think of. It is only by the grace of memory that I recall seeing them.

Neil follows me in and puts my bags down.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He hovers by the door for a moment. “If you need anything—”